


5 Things Sherlock Can’t Do, And One Thing He Most Certainly Can

by kam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the BBC Kink Meme Prompt:<br/>Based on the following exchange from the Young Sherlock Holmes about his violin:</p><p>Holmes: I should've mastered the damn thing by now.<br/>Watson: How long have you been playing?<br/>Holmes: Three days. </p><p>Give me five things that Sherlock honestly, truly sucks at, much to his dismay. NOT emotional/interaction type things, but skills or abilities he just fails abominably at (and refuses to admit this as the case). I would love for drawing to be one of these, based on this fan art: http://butterflyweb.tumblr.com/post/38051001553/ilovemyjawn-and-then-because-nothings-good but the rest are more than up to you!!</p><p>Johnlock is love but so is bromance John&Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make Tea

“Sherlock, this is _horrible_. What did you do to it?”

“Preposterous. I followed your directions _exactly_.”

John sighed and took another sip, wincing at the taste. Whatever Sherlock had done, he had certainly _not_ brewed a proper cuppa.

“Tell me what you did.”

“I boiled the water,”

Sherlock had crossed his arms defensively by this point, and was frowning.

“Then I poured it into the mug and added the tea bags.”

“...tea _bags_?”

“Tea bags, yes. I let them steep for several minutes, then added the milk and sugar, as per your directions. One splash, and one spoonful.”

“Sherlock, how _many_ tea bags did you use?”

“Five. Perhaps I should have used more? You didn’t specify.”

John sighed heavily, rubbing his face.

“You’re only meant to use _one_ tea bag, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned.

“But you prefer strong tea.”

“Yes, which is why I let it brew longer.”

“So… One bag, then? And let it sit longer?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

 

“This is… This is much better,”

John did his best to hide his grimace as he sipped the tea Sherlock had brought him – fifth cup in an hour, each one slightly better than the last, but still horribly, horribly wrong.

“No, something’s wrong. What’s wrong, what’ve I done wrong this time?”

“I don’t _know_ , Sherlock, tell me what you did.”

It was honestly confusing as hell – Sherlock was a _genius_ , why was he having so much difficulty figuring out how to brew a cup of tea?

“I boiled the water, and put _one_ tea bag in the mug. Then I added the water and let it brew. Then I added the milk and sugar. That’s all.”

John sighed heavily and took another sip, doing his level best to detect the problem.

“Sherlock… Bring me the milk.”

Sherlock stalked off to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the milk.

“It’s gone off. You’ve been using spoiled milk.”

 

“What _now_.”

“Have you been using salt instead of sugar?”

“No, of course not, I… Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about these yet. Also, they're almost entirely dialogue, which feels lazy as all hell to me. So.
> 
> Also, I can't seem to get it to show the chapter titles, so uh I don't know.
> 
> This chapter is, brilliantly, called Make Tea.
> 
> Maybe they're just not showing up for me? Maybe you can see them? Ugh, I don't know.


	2. Whistle

“Alright, look, I’m going to go get help. You’ll be alright, yeah? Just stay here, stay _quiet_ , ok? But if you… If anything happens just, um… Just whistle. Just whistle, um, whistle the first bit of Beethoven’s fifth, alright?”

“No.”

“What? _Why_?”

“That’s ridiculous, John, that’s a _horrible_ signal.”

“Alright, pick something you like, then. I don’t care _what_ you whistle. It doesn’t _matter_.”

“I’m not going to _whistle_ a piece of music at a _crime scene_ , John.”

“No. No, of course you’re not. That would be too bloody _easy_ , wouldn’t it. Alright, um, then… Just whistle like, um…”

John whistled three notes in quick succession, up-down-up, as quietly as he could.

“Just whistle that.”

“No.”

“ _Why_.”

“Whistling at a crime scene – whistling _anything_ – is an idiotic idea. It is more likely than not that you will not be the first one to investigate.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. You could just _say_ that you can’t whistle.”

“I _can_ whistle.”

“Then just whistle what I told you.”

“No.”

“Sherlock. I am going to leave you here. I am going to go find help, because you got yourself shot in the leg. At a bloody crime scene. And if you need me, you had bloody better figure out whistling what I told you, because otherwise I am not coming back until I’ve done what I’m leaving in the first place for.”

“John. _John_. I _can_ whistle. Just. Only just the one note. So.”

“Christ, _fine_ , Sherlock, then just whistle three times. Bloody hell.”

 

“It’s ok, you know. That you can’t whistle. Not everyone can.”

“I _can_ whistle, John.”

“Yeah, alright. Nice blanket.”

“It’s for shock. They always think I’m in shock.”

“Yeah. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could add Sherlock's shock blanket as a character.


	3. Drink

“Sherlock, we’re going to the pub. You should come.”

“No.”

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to loosen up and have fun once in a while.”

“I hardly see how drinking yourself sick with a group of imbeciles is ‘fun’.”

“Right. Well, we’ll be at the Lion, if you change your mind. It’d… I’d like it, if you came.”

 

“Is that… Is that _Sherlock_?”

John looked up from his pint and, sure enough, Sherlock was standing just inside the door, eyes darting here and there.

“Bloody hell.”

John hopped up and hurried over, unable to stop a grin.

“You came!”

“Indeed.”

“Brilliant. Come on, I’ll buy your first round. The guys are over there,”

he gestured vaguely to a corner table.

“When you say ‘first round’…”

“What do you like? Never took you for a beer man, personally, but I suppose you’re just full of surprises tonight.”

“I will… Have what you’re having.”

“Brilliant!”

 

“Right, lads, I’m buying. All the same?”

“I really think two is more than…”

“Oi, Sherlock, look. I’ll tell you this, since I doubt you’ve ever gone to a pub with your mates…”

“He doesn’t _have_ mates,”

John elbowed Anderson fiercely and gestured for Lestrade to go on.

“When someone offers to buy you a round, you don’t refuse. It’s just bad form.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, and John shot him a beseeching look. ‘Just this once, don’t,’ it said, and Sherlock exhaled through his nose and nodded.

“Fine. By all means, another.”

 

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ , John. I’m _brilliant_. Well, I’m brilliant, as well, but I meant the other… Like what you say. Like it’s brilliant that I came tonight. It’s not, so you know, it was really just incredibly _stupid_ , but here I am, and I feel brilliant – the other one, that is – and I am _fine_.”

“Anderson, it’s your turn.”

“Right, fine. Six, then?”

There was general assent from the table, though John looked concerned.

“Sherlock, maybe you ought to…”

“Absolutely not. I am here to participate in your ‘pub night.’ And Lestrade… Lestrade _said_. He said it’s _bad form_. So.”

 

“Oi, Sherlock, how many’ve you had, anyway?”

“Dunno. Several. A few. A handful?”

“He’s had four now.”

“Only?”

John shrugged helplessly, grabbing Sherlock’s arm as he attempted to wander off again.

“He doesn’t drink much. Well, ever.”

“Clearly.”

“John, I would like to go home now. I would like to go home with you. I would like you to go home. With me.”

“Right, I suppose I should. Sorry, lads. I’ll buy the first two next time.”

“Yeah, alright. Just get him home safe.”

 

“John, I feel exceptionally strange.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Preposterous. I _never_ drink.”

“Yeah, that’s why.”

“Is this what _you_ feel like when _you_ drink?”

“I doubt it. I don’t think I’ve been as drunk as you are since Uni.”

“ _Tolerance_.”

“Yeah.”

“They are going to make fun of me the next time they see me, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Will you?”

“Nah. Well. Maybe a bit.”

“John Watson, you are a far better man than most. You are exceptional, and I’m rather fond of you, truth be told.”

“Yeah, alright. Let’s get you to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are actually super-hard to come up with.  
> Like, everyone knows that Sherlock has no social skills. But it just seems like he's good at literally _everything_ else. So.  
>  But I always imagine him being a total lightweight.


	4. Draw

“Right, we’ll get you two set up with the Photofit. John, do you wanna go first?”

“Sherlock can, actually. I can, um. I can just draw him for you. If you like. I never liked those computer ones.”

“You can draw? It has to be really detailed, you know, realistic and all.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I studied art. For a while. In Uni.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t talk about it much. Not much call for it now.”

“Right. Well, I’ll get you some paper. I dunno how good you are, we might have to do the Photofit anyway.”

“Yeah, alright.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you could draw?”

“I thought you knew. You know everything else.”

“John, I have told you, I am not a mind-reader. Show me your drawing.”

“I don’t have it. Lestrade kept it.”

“Draw another one.”

“Oi, I’m not a performing monkey, Sherlock. You can’t just order me to do something.”

“Please.”

“I don’t… Why does it matter so much?”

“I do not appreciate you hiding things from me.”

“I wasn’t hiding it. Like I said, there’s not much call for it.”

“I am calling for it now.”

“Fine.”

 

“John, this is exceptional.”

“It’s… Yeah, alright. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is.”

“Nah. I was never that… There were always better, in my classes. It was just a hobby.”

“It is far more than most can do.”

“Come off it, Sherlock. Just cause you can do bloody _everything_ …”

“I cannot. I can’t draw. Not like you. Nothing like… This.”

“I’ve seen you…”

“Rudimentary. Mummy insisted I take lessons. I can sketch, a bit. I took up violin instead. My tutor called my work ‘abysmal.’”

“Sounds like a right twat.”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as a caveat - I have _no idea_ if any of this fits with canon.  
>  Like, does Sherlock ever whistle in the show? I don't remember. Maybe there's a scene where he's shown drawing.  
> WHATEVER.


	5. Write a Love Letter

John,

Due to recent events, I have spent some time reconsidering my position vis-à-vis our current arrangement. I have come to the conclusion that I was (and I will only say this once, so pay attention,) wrong, that first night. Well, not wrong, per se. At the time, I was correct. And what I said remains true – this is most certainly _not_ my area. Circumstances have changed, however, and I now wish to inform you that I reciprocate your vehemently denied interest (you’re not fooling anyone, incidentally. Honestly, if the idiots at the Yard can see it, you’re simply not trying. [Or perhaps you are trying and you’re just very, very bad at it. {Note to self: possible basis for future experiment.}])

As I will be away for several days (case in Sussex, possible triple homicide. It’s Christmas all over again.) and you insist on maintaining a ‘job’ (locum work? Honestly, John, you’re a bloody doctor. If being my assistant isn’t enough excitement for you, you could at least have the decency to find _real_ work.) and therefore will not be accompanying me, I have concluded this is the most sensible way to inform you of my decision. Also, you take a ridiculous amount of time to process _anything_ , so I imagine you will find the break from my company useful in that regard.

It is apparently vital that I not _demand_ an answer (were you aware of the number of rules regarding romantic relationships? It’s a wonder _anyone_ engages in them.) but I would greatly appreciate an opinion, at the very least, when I return. Which will be in three days. As I informed you via SMS earlier. (Possibly two, if it is not, as I suspect, a triple homicide, but rather insurance fraud. I shall keep you informed.) I eagerly await your decision.

Yours always (this is how the internet indicates one signs a love letter, I hope you find it acceptable,)

Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one might be cheating a little, cause I guess maybe writing love letters is like a social skill thing?  
> Whatever, just bear with me. The porny bit is coming up. That's what you're all here for, anyway, isn't it?  
> I mean. No judgement. That's always what I show up for. So. We're all friends here. What's a little porn between friends?  
> Said Sherlock to John.  
> ...someone please write that.


	6. Get John Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My seduction technique is not particularly varied, but it is effective.

It starts with his voice. He _knows_ , the bastard _knows_ what it does to me. I’m pretty sure that, if he wasn’t so impatient, he could probably _talk_ me to an orgasm. If he could keep his hands to himself for that long. Which he can’t. 

Next are the eyes. They flash quicksilver as he sweeps them up and down, a gaze that’s _almost_ clinical, except for the heat beneath the ice. He’s assessing. Checking to see if it’s working, if I’m _amenable_. Which I always am. Because, Christ. Really.

He’ll smile, a slow, lazy thing, and that smile should be illegal, honestly, because of the dirty, _filthy_ things it promises. Sometimes he’ll dart his tongue out, moistening his lips, copying me.

Only then does he approach. The teasing all occurs from across the room, from his chair or the sofa or sometimes the other side of the kitchen. Once he’s found me receptive, he’ll come over, invade my space, and I don’t know where he learned it but he _scents_ me, draws his nose along my neck, pauses behind my ear, and on occasion, he _growls_. And God help me, I’ve no idea _why_ but that is what does me in.

Mostly, we make it to the bedroom, but not always. Sherlock seems intent on fucking me (or being fucked) on every single flat surface in the flat. I’m partial to the sofa and the kitchen table, though I’m always a bit leery about being naked so close to his experiments.

He is methodical in this, as in everything. He uses blowjobs to indicate who’s topping – if he wants to fuck me, he will first sink to his knees, undoing my flies and pushing my trousers down my hips. He never takes them all the way off, and I always forget to ask why. Generally, I’m too busy focusing on what he’s doing, the heat of it as he mouths at me through my pants. He’ll pull back for a moment to nuzzle at the join of my thigh, then press kisses along my waist as he pulls my (now quite damp) pants down my legs, finally pushing everything to my ankles so I can kick them off. Then he’s back, taking me into his mouth, teasing the head or licking the shaft or swallowing as much as he can as the mood strikes him.

Of course, if he wants to be fucked (or he thinks it’s my turn to top, I don’t know, he might keep track somehow,) he’ll press insistently at my shoulders, even though I’ve _told_ him it’s better form to just _ask_.

I may never know for sure how he learned to do all of this. He maintains that I am his first sexual partner, and I believe him. But the internet only has so much information, and anyway, reading something isn’t the same as putting it into practice. So I don’t know _how_ it is that he managed to give me the best blowjob of my life his first time around, whereas he had to talk me through the entire process my first time.

He never lets me get off that way, not when he wants to go further. He will bring me to the very edge, have me shaking and begging, and pull back to smile up at me, innocently. Or, as innocently as one can smile when one’s lips are red and swollen and one's pupils are blown wide.

You would think that _he_ would hate the preparation and _I_ would appreciate it. That is not the case. He takes his time, slow and thorough, and by the time he is finally _finally_ satisfied, I am once again shaking and begging, demanding that he go ahead and _just bloody do it_ , because I have had enough and I can’t wait any longer. He does it on purpose. Me being properly prepared is only a side-benefit of the whole process. The entire point is to take me apart, and _fuck_ but he does it well.

So, by the time he actually enters me, I’m a complete mess, just totally wrecked, and all I can do is cling to whatever part of him I can reach and make a lot of really embarrassing noises, interspersed with a bit more begging, for good measure. This is the only part he ever varies – sometimes, he’ll go achingly slow, teasing it out for as long as he can, driving me mad, and other times he’ll be fast and rough, driving me into whatever we’re lying on until my back is scraped or bruised or burned and I can’t bring myself to care because it is so _good_.

Afterwards, there is the requisite cleaning up and cuddling. The cuddling bit was, surprisingly, initiated by him. Don’t get me wrong, I will never turn down a good post-coital cuddle, but it wasn’t something I expected from him. The first time, he informed me that he had read that it was the thing to do. The second time, he informed me that he’d found he’d rather enjoyed it last time, so if I was not averse, he’d like to include it as part of the routine. Because Sherlock has a routine for sex. Which is honestly not as surprising as I would maybe like to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There it is. I'm not much for writing sex, so I hope that's ok.  
> Also, I started writing this from Sherlock's POV, and the first line was just too good to not use. So it became the summary.  
> Also also, when I say John's back is scraped or bruised or _burned_ , I'm talking about rug burn. Not like. Sherlock is fucking him on the stove top. Because that would be stupid.  
> Except someone has probably done that, and I'm sorry, maybe it's not stupid. Maybe I just don't appreciate it. I don't know.


End file.
